


Shifting Sands

by Misdemeanor1331



Series: Incremental Shifts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Businessman Draco Malfoy, F/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: During a routine Ministry audit, Hermione Granger notices an inconsistency in one company's inventory list: a higher than normal number for the rare ingredient, fulgurite. Her investigation reconnects her with business owner Draco Malfoy, who is more interested in acquiring her skills than answering her questions. A summertime game of cat-and-mouse provides an entertaining distraction, but only the lightning clarity of truth can reveal what they both really need.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Series: Incremental Shifts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963771
Comments: 143
Kudos: 291
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2020 HP Drizzle fest. My prompt was: #68 - Character A needs to harvest fulgurite for a specific magical use. Character B is worried about Character A doing it and tags along (knowingly or not…) for safety's sake.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, eilonwy, for her attention to detail, kind words, and quick turnaround. Thanks to sparrow_ink for their input on the first 1500 words of this fic.
> 
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 1**

Like most problems that landed on Hermione Granger’s desk, it started with an audit.

The inspection had been a routine one, planned and announced well in advance by the International Magical Trading Standards Body. Hermione hadn’t even been on the team, just a mandatory Level 2 reviewer who happened to be next in the rotation. The 32-scroll report had landed on her desk with the twin expectations of a two-day turnaround time and blind acceptance of the report’s findings. 

With any other reviewer, perhaps that would have been the case. 

Unfortunately, even after eight fruitless years of pursuing fulfillment in the swamp of government drudgery, Hermione had not yet broken the troublesome habit of caring about her work.

The audit’s scope was limited to the five largest companies that provided Potions ingredients, raw materials, and consumable supplies to wizarding laboratories, universities, and hospitals across Europe. The smallest on that list was Alkemens: a formerly unknown competitor which, over the past five years, had made a name for itself by supplying high-quality, rare ingredients. It was the second-largest subsidiary of parent company Vincet Semper, which had been founded and was still controlled by the Malfoy family. 

On the surface, everything looked in order. Alkemens’ documentation was spotless. Every question the audit team posed had been answered, every complaint investigated and resolved per internal procedure. They even priced fairly—a wonder, considering what they could have charged for unicorn hoof clippings and Thaumatagoria. But a line in their Quantities Supplied inventory list had caught Hermione’s notice. A number markedly higher than she expected.

Fulgurite. 

An obscure ingredient, not used in any of the common brews. Hermione opened her bottom desk drawer and reached into it up to her shoulder, feeling her way through her collection until she found the familiar boxed corners and dented spine of Libatius Borage’s _Advanced Potion Making_. The ingredient index was alphabetized at the book’s front. She quickly found the correct page.

> _Fulgurite: A mineraloid most commonly formed when lightning strikes a silica-rich substance, like sand. Though the Earth experiences an average of 3 billion cloud-to-ground lightning strikes per year, the International Magic Trading Standards Body considers fulgurite a Class 2 Rare Ingredient (downgraded from Class 1 in 1972 with the development of advanced ground-penetrating techniques.)_
> 
> _Fulgurite formation requires a lightning strike of at least 1800°C, which is the minimum required temperature for silica fusion. While this requirement is often met (the average temperature of a lightning strike is approximately 2500°C), it is not the only variable upon which fulgurite formation rests. Soil conditions—including the ratio of silica to other organic and inorganic compounds, ground temperature, and density of the struck sand bed—will determine a fulgurite’s size, shape, color, and structure, if it forms at all._
> 
> _In brewing, fulgurite is used as a powerful catalytic agent. It is particularly sought after for sensitive, high-purity brews such as Veritaserum._

Hermione turned back to the inventory list and tapped the empty nib of her quill against her blotter. Last year, Alkemens had shipped four times more fulgurite than its nearest competitor. The discrepancy was unusual, even for a supplier specializing in rare ingredients. And the British Isles weren’t exactly known for their thunderstorms.

Her hand stilled. Something wasn’t right. 

She binned her ruined quill, inked a fresh one, and jotted a memo to Constance Oikea, the Lead Auditor from the IMTSB. 

They needed to have a meeting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Alkemens was headquartered just outside of Falkirk, about halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow. The two-storey structure sat at the end of a dead-ended road in an abandoned corporate park in what was probably considered the dodgy part of town. The building was unremarkable: an ugly, utilitarian structure built of grey bricks that matched the overcast sky. Somber, bland, and almost invisible, it was the ideal repository for the planet’s rarest and most dangerous raw ingredients.

Hermione picked her way across the uneven path to Alkemens’ front door. Tenacious weeds had forced themselves into the cracks between the pavers, causing the stones to jut up from the earth like cracked teeth. She pulled her cloak tighter as a chill wind blew. It had been threatening rain all day. Not unusual for Scotland, but the rapidly cooling temperature portended a strong April storm. 

The glass door, chipped and scratched, groaned on stubborn hinges as Hermione pulled it open. She stepped into a windowless room. Thoughts of claustrophobia started to brew, but a cheerful _ping_ sounded before they could fester, and the drab door before her breezed open without a sound. 

The lobby’s marble floors were light grey, swirling with galaxies of white and planetary flecks of shimmering navy. To her left was a small seating area with chic, slate-grey chairs and a low table set with _Potioneering Today_ and _Brewer’s Best_ magazines. Enlarged photographs of common magical plants decorated the pale blue walls. Blooming, bending in a breeze, and drifting along unseen water currents, the artistic pieces made her feel like she had stepped into a prized terrarium. A pity she had visited on a day with such poor weather: she could imagine the lobby sparkling with sunlight thanks to the glass-paneled ceiling. 

From behind the curving reception desk stepped a well-dressed man with dark skin, braided hair, and a dazzling smile. 

“Ms. Granger.” He approached with his hand outstretched. “Welcome to Alkemens.” 

She took his hand and replied with a polite smile. “I’m sorry, how do you—”

“Ms. Oikea sent a note. She indicated that you’d be stopping by to address some outstanding queries. My name is Lawrence. I’ll get you checked into security, and then escort you to the conference room.” 

He logged her name, the date, and the time she arrived in a book of bound parchment. She smiled for her photo and, moments later, a poor-quality ink sketch of her face was transferred onto a double-thick, rectangular piece of parchment. She affixed it to her blouse with a Temporary Sticking Charm and followed Lawrence to a door behind the reception desk. He pressed his wandtip to the sensor that controlled facility access. 

They entered a large office area with dark grey carpet and full-sized cubicle walls. Some employees lounged in the kitchenette, talking over tea and biscuits. Others were bent over paperwork at their desks, quills flying. One pair cut into the main hallway, twirling their safety glasses around their fingers as they headed toward another sensor-controlled door. Everyone looked well-adjusted and, if not happy, then certainly not as miserable as the Ministry on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Lawrence stopped just past the office area, gesturing her into a conference room with a six-person table, a white board, and a wall of windows. 

“Water?” 

Hermione walked around the table and set her cloak over a chair that faced the door. 

“Please.”

“Still or sparkling?” 

She blinked in surprise. “Sparkling.” 

“Good choice,” he said with a wink. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Granger.” With a parting smile, he closed the door. 

Hermione settled herself in the chair, a comfortable swivel number, fully adjustable and nicer than what the Ministry provided: lumpy, boxy things in an array of hideous colors, which she suspected were holdovers from the early 1970s. She spun and faced the window. The conference room overlooked a small pond, past which was a bank of woods just beginning to bud with green. Updated facilities, sparkling water, nice chairs, a conference room with a view… The benefits of private enterprise were obvious and admittedly tempting. 

A light knock sounded at the door. Hermione turned away from the window, ready with a smile and a _Thank you_ for Lawrence. 

But it wasn’t Lawrence. 

Draco Malfoy filled the doorframe, a tall glass of sparkling water garnished with a lemon wedge held in one hand. 

She shot to her feet. 

It had been eight years since she’d seen him last. They’d been disembarking from the Hogwarts Express after graduating their Eighth Year. A handful of their classmates had returned to the injured castle, looking for healing and reunion. A normal bookend to an abnormal time. She’d grown close to most of her Eighth Year peers, but Draco had remained aloof. Perhaps because returning to Hogwarts hadn’t been his choice, but a condition of his parole from his summer in Azkaban. 

Both Lucius and Narcissa had been serving their sentences during graduation in June of 1999. Lucius had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, which most agreed was a fitting punishment. The public had been torn on whether Narcissa deserved the same fate, or mercy because of what she’d done for Harry. In the end, the Wizengamot had split the difference and sentenced her to house arrest.

The details of it hardly mattered, though: Hermione had stepped off the train and into a swarm of Weasleys, and Draco had disembarked alone. No one had come to offer him a friendly face or a warm welcome back from school. No one had taken his owl or his bags and wrapped him in a single-armed hug. No one had cared enough to bother. 

But Hermione had seen him. She’d seen the wistful look that had shadowed his eyes as he took one final glance at the Hogwarts Express. She’d seen his slight frown as he’d scanned the crowd, the stiffening of his shoulders when he realized he’d be leaving alone. Despite the conceited, arrogant bully he’d been, Hermione nevertheless felt a tug in her heart, both struck and saddened by his composure. She’d watched as he turned his back on the joy of reunion and exited the station with his head held high, pride and control helping him cut a straight line through the chaos. 

That, at least, hadn’t changed. 

She could not boast the same sangfroid: the mere sight of him had started a riot in her. She felt unprepared, almost dumbfounded by his presence, and confused as to why his angled face and grey eyes would throw her so off-kilter. Draco, however, appeared unfazed. His only concession to emotion was the grin that played across his thin lips. 

Draco held his free hand out for her. She gave her clammy palm a quick swipe against her trousers, then shook it. His skin was warm and dry, his fingers firm against the back of her hand. 

“Malfoy.”

“Draco, please.” He released her hand. “It’s nice to see you.”

“What are you doing here?” 

The slight arch of his eyebrow made her realize what a stupid question that had been. But he didn’t laugh at her. Just shut the door, set her water on the table, and invited her to sit. 

“I work here,” he said. “Part-time, at least.” 

“But you weren’t involved with the audit.” 

She flipped to the second page of the draft audit report to confirm. Kira Kressley was listed as the president of Alkemens and had led the tour group.

“Neither were you, and yet…” He gestured widely. “I was under the impression that the audit was due to close today. I reviewed the draft report and gave my approval.” 

“I asked Constance for an extension.” 

And the Lead Auditor had given it, unwillingly. Convincing her had taken Hermione ten minutes of explanation, five minutes of pleading, varied assurances that her investigation would produce no additional work for the audit team, and a final promise of full accountability to management if her inquiry yielded nothing. 

“I’m the mandatory reviewer from Level 2,” Hermione continued, “and I have some questions.” 

His lips twitched. “Of course. What can I do for you, then, Ms. Granger?” 

Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She reached for the water and took a sip, trying to collect herself. This was an audit. She was a professional. But the formality of her last name, coming from his teasing mouth, made her mind wander to places typically discouraged during business hours. 

She set the glass down and folded her hands on the table. 

“Fulgurite.” 

She let the word hang, the silence gaining weight until it felt like a third, impatient presence. Draco might as well have been carved from stone. He waited politely, at ease in the quiet. Hermione made note: the usual auditor tricks of pregnant pauses wouldn’t work on him. He was careful with the information he shared. That didn’t mean he was hiding something, but if he were, it wouldn’t be easy to find. 

She flipped to the report’s first appendix—the inventory list that had sparked her curiosity—and passed it across the table. 

“You supply significantly more of it than your closest competitors. Could you explain why that is?” 

“I suppose we’re better at finding it.” 

He flashed her a smile and leaned in, as if she were in on the joke. Hermione bit her tongue. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him smile, least of all near her. It was mesmerizing, how it transformed his face, brought light into his eyes and made him look a decade younger. But she wouldn’t let herself be charmed out of an answer. She squared her shoulders. 

“Do you have any on site?” 

Draco leaned back. His smile faded, but the mischief sparkling in his eyes remained intact. It was as if she had made precisely the move he’d anticipated in a competitive chess match. Only she couldn’t yet see his endgame. 

“Of course.” 

“May I see it?” 

“Is this an official audit request, or are you simply curious?” 

Both, but there was no need for him to know that. “Will my answer influence what you show me?” 

“No,” he said with a grin. “I was simply curious.”

He pushed away from the table and stood. Hermione fought to control the blush rising across her cheeks as she followed him from the conference room. 

She needed to recalibrate. She’d come to Alkemens expecting a forthright conversation with Kira Kressley on fulgurite grammage. Instead, she’d gotten a playful interview with Draco Malfoy on… On what, exactly, she had yet to discover. But it felt much more significant than atypical inventory levels. 

She smiled in thanks when he handed her a pair of safety glasses and a white lab coat embroidered with the company logo: _Alᚲemens_ , picked out in blue thread with the rune _Kenaz_ taking the place of the _K_. He wand-scanned them through the door and into a clean hallway, with white floors and walls the same pale blue as the lobby. 

“Ordinarily, I’d give first-time visitors to Alkemens the full company history, but I assume you’ve already familiarized yourself with it.” 

“It was in the report,” Hermione confirmed. “Founded in 1980, small and relatively unknown until you took over Vincet Semper in the fall of 1999. Now large enough to attract the Ministry’s attention.” 

“You’ve been studying.” 

She rolled her eyes. “It was a paragraph. Hardly a storied history.” 

He looked down at her, his gaze speculative and distant. “Not yet.” The statement carried an air of prophecy. 

“It’s very modern, though,” she noted, to his apparent pleasure. “The wand access, the security, the white boards, the chairs… It almost reminds me of a Muggle facility.” 

“Our employees’ suggestions,” he said. “We renovated three years back and asked for their input. We explored all options and incorporated what we could.” 

“That’s very… Forward thinking.” 

He met her surprise with an indulgent smile. “I’m glad you think so.” He gestured down the hallway. “As per regulation, we maintain separate facilities for organics and inorganics. Throughout receipt, processing, packaging, and disposition, materials remain segregated, providing our clients with the highest ingredient purity in the industry. Further, we provide physical barriers between magical and mundane components. These are our inorganic labs. Magical—” he nodded to the left “—and mundane.” 

He opened a door on the right and paused a moment while she surveyed the space. The lab was empty. Purposefully, she imagined; employees tended to make themselves scarce when auditors were present. But they’d done a good job with their preparations. The black benchtops were clear of clutter and had been wiped down. All instrumentation and equipment appeared to be well-maintained and stored in its proper place. Even the waste bins had been recently emptied. 

“Tidy,” she remarked.

“Alkemens takes its housekeeping seriously,” Draco said. “Our complaints department has reported cross-contamination events of less than 5% for the past two years. Our site manager, Jonas Klar, is keen to maintain the streak.” 

They wove between the benches to the lab’s back corner where there were two doors, one labeled _Incoming_ , the other _Outgoing_. He placed a hand on the push bar of the _Outgoing_ door. 

“This is where we keep our processed inorganics that are ready for shipment. You’ll notice the room is temperature and humidity controlled. Stay within the yellow lines, please. Hardhats are required otherwise.” 

The door opened to a cool, cavernous, well-lit space. Shelves two storeys tall were loaded with goods in pallets, barrels, bottles, and bags. A few employees in hardhats and work boots walked the aisles, checking packing lists and levitating items into shipping containers that followed them like giant, floating dogs. 

An employee in a nearby office saw them and came over. 

“Mr. Malfoy, sir.” Draco shook his hand in greeting. 

“Gert, this is Hermione Granger. Ms. Granger, this is Gert Port, our Inorganics Warehouse Master.” 

Gert’s handshake was firm. He looked between Draco and Hermione expectantly. 

“Ms. Granger would like to see some of our fulgurite, please.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hermione watched him disappear behind a row of shelves, then let her gaze wander. 

“What do you think?” Draco asked as they waited. 

She sent him a sharp look. “You know I’m only here for the fulgurite, correct? The audit was completed. Constance rated you favorably.” 

“I know how we were rated. That’s not what I asked.” His eyes were focused, intent, and Hermione felt like she was missing something obvious. 

“My opinion doesn’t matter.” 

“Yes, it does, Hermione.” 

Her stomach lurched at the use of her given name. She’d always been _Granger_ to him. Or worse. 

“Why?”

Draco only smiled, an expression as infuriating as it was pleasant. 

Gert cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with what he had interrupted. Hermione dragged her eyes away from Draco’s and watched as Gert deposited five small, plastic bags and one large box onto a stainless steel table. He looked to Draco for further instruction. 

“That will be all for now, thank you.” 

Gert parted with a nod and returned to his duties. Draco, meanwhile, fanned the bags out for better viewing. 

“Alkemens is the only European supplier to stock all five purity grades of fulgurite. The most commonly requested quantity is three grams, though we can pool lots to provide larger volumes if requested. We also sell whole units.” He lifted the lid off the box. “Please.” 

Hermione looked at each of the bags in turn, the fine powder arrayed by shade: chartreuse the least pure, then transitioning to dark gold, yellow, white, and finally clear. Carefully, she tilted the box toward her. The branching mineraloid reminded her of coral, as white as tropical beach sand and uniquely beautiful. 

“How do you find them?” 

“That’s proprietary.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Audits were understood to be confidential undertakings, a forthright disclosure from the company to the regulator in order to verify compliance to the required statutes. It was unusual for any reasonable request to be denied outright. Negotiation, however, was common enough. 

“I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement,” Hermione said. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to run the request through Legal.” Draco gave her a wan smile. “You know how particular Advocates can be.” 

“ _Malfoy_.” 

“Draco, please.” 

She set the box down and sighed. On the exceedingly rare occasion of an auditor and auditee failing to align on what information could be provided, the Lead Auditor initiated an escalation procedure. The request was formalized and run up through Legal on both sides. The merits would be debated through Advocates, effectively removing the issue from the audit team’s scope until the final outcome was agreed upon and funneled back down to the team. However, the procedure only applied when the audit was in process, and only the Lead Auditor had the authority to perform its required actions. Hermione needed to find a different path forward. 

She opted for brutal honesty. 

“Can we stop dancing around the subject?” 

“I’ve been nothing but honest since you arrived.” 

“But you know why I’m worried. If you’re doing what I think you’re doing—”

“And what’s that?” 

Hermione frowned; he was going to make her say it. 

She stepped closer to make sure they weren’t overheard. This scandal could ruin him. Or, depending on how many Wizengamot members he could afford, at least be a very expensive inconvenience. There was no need to bring his employees into it. 

“Meteorological manipulation,” she said, dropping her voice low. “It’s Dark magic, it’s illegal, and you _know_ it’s illegal. If you’re using your magic to control the weather, to turn a _profit_ —”

“I’m not.” 

“Then you need to tell me how you’re producing four times more fulgurite than anybody else in the business.” 

“Is my word not enough?” 

“No.” 

The warmth he’d shown throughout their meeting dropped away, replaced by cold civility. Hermione registered a moment of shock, a flicker of disappointment, and then she realized: he had expected her to believe him. 

She had no idea why. They hadn’t spoken since his trial. Even then, all he’d given her was a stiff _Thank you_ for her favorable testimony. They didn’t share a history that encouraged blind faith, they had no current relationship to leverage against her suspicions, and their future held a non-zero chance of her building a criminal case against him. His request for her trust was absurd. Outrageous. Laughable, even. 

So why did his look of betrayal hurt so much? 

“I’m afraid that’s all I can give you, Ms. Granger.” A return to the formality of her surname. She suppressed a wince. “Any further requests will have to be vetted through Legal.” 

“Draco…” 

He gestured her toward the door labeled _Incoming_. “I hope you enjoyed your tour. Alkemens is always happy to host Ministry personnel.” 

His switch to the canned, sterile language of business was another gut-punch. She wanted to apologize, but bit her tongue. Perhaps there was one more way, one last chance…

“I can help you.” 

Draco paused, looked over his shoulder at her. 

“If you tell me the truth, I can help you fight it,” she continued. “Maybe even beat it. I know Aurors, and I have a few contacts in the Minister’s office. I can—”

“You can do _nothing_.” His voice cracked across the cavernous warehouse like a shot. “All you have is a suspicion and a number on a page. You have no proof, no _evidence_ to support your slanderous claim.” 

“ _Slanderous_? I—”

He closed the gap between them in two long strides. She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the steel table, suddenly conscious of his considerable height advantage; he loomed over her by at least ten inches. His proximity sent her pulse galloping. They had never been this close before. She could smell his aftershave and see flecks of icy blue in his eyes. Could feel the heat of his body and hear the steady cadence of his breath. She craned her neck, determined to hold his gaze. 

“You are accusing a reformed Death Eater of practicing Dark magic. Such a rumor, if it were to find its way into the Ministry gossip mill, or perhaps the _Daily Prophet_ , would damage not only my reputation, but my business.” 

“I wouldn’t…” she gasped. “I won’t—” 

“I’ve worked hard for this.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t.” Draco’s eyes softened, and he stepped back a pace. Hermione felt her breath return, even as her heart continued to pound. She clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking. 

“I’m not out to ruin you,” she said. “I can see how hard you’ve worked, and this place?” She looked around the warehouse. The order of it. The precision. The systems and controls and procedures that needed to be in place in order to maintain it. The Ministry didn’t function half so efficiently. “This place is incredible. The organization, the supply chain, the facility… Even your employees look happier than most. But I can’t just let this go.” 

“And I can’t convince you. It seems we’re at an impasse.” 

Hermione’s shoulders sagged. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Perhaps this was their fate: to forever be on opposite sides of an issue, out of phase, each negating any progress made by the other. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish it could be different.” 

“Me, too,” he said with a sigh. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

In the distance, thunder rumbled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Ministry of Magic’s Magical Maintenance Department was staffed with some of the most skilled witches and wizards in existence.

Admittedly, some of the other departments had their merits. The Unspeakables on Level 9, for example, studied the universe’s greatest secrets all while maintaining the requisite air of mystery. Magical Games and Sports arranged the yearly Quidditch season, which was integral to keeping the peace and distracting the populace from the general ineptitude of the buffoons on Level 1. Magical Transportation was roundly abused without realizing that they were the objects of government-wide derision, and that level of ignorance was a feat in its own right. 

But Maintenance workers existed on a plane above and beyond those visited by even the cleverest Ministry employees. Backfiring commodes flummoxed Aurors; Maintenance could unclog any pipe, uncurse any flapper, and unseal any buttocks. Office downpours turned the department heads of International Magical Cooperation against one another; Maintenance had a stash of Impenetrable Umbrellas to ward against precipitation of any shape, size, density, and velocity. Malfunctioning memos sent the injury rate of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes skyrocketing; Magical Maintenance had protective eyewear to spare. 

The department was the only one with a successful task completion rate of 100%. They had yet to be stumped. 

And so, when the requisition from _H. Granger, Level 2 — Improper Use of Magic Office_ dropped onto Hephaestus Neate’s desk, the brawny Department Head barely batted an eye. He sent the form to the queue of Didier Solvé, a transplant from the French Ministry whose inbox was a mere three work orders away from empty. 

Was the request unusual? Yes, but it was far from the strangest thing Hephaestus had seen in his three decades of service. 

If the woman wanted a window charmed to show every thunderstorm occurring on or near the British Isles’ extensive coastline, who was he to judge?

* * *

After submitting her Magical Maintenance requisition and swallowing a significant amount of her pride, Hermione met with Constance and admitted that her own, brief audit of Alkemens had yielded no new information. 

The older woman’s blue eyes narrowed as a tight smile stretched her pink-painted lips. 

“I’m sure Mrs. Kressley was happy to accommodate you, but the Ministry isn’t in the habit of imposing upon businesses unnecessarily. Perhaps next time you’ll trust the audit team’s findings and sign off?” 

Blood rushed into Hermione’s cheeks, Constance’s subtext transmitted loud and clear. Don’t ask questions. Go along to get along. 

That had been the refrain since Hermione started at the Ministry in the fall of 1999. In the span of eight years, she had changed departments four times. She’d been unable to stomach the brutality in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures or the backstabbing political games of International Magical Cooperation. She thought she’d found a home on Level 2, but the ‘Curse first, ask questions later’ policy of the Auror’s Office hadn’t been a good fit. Though she hadn’t admitted it to anyone, Improper Use was her last try. If she couldn’t find fulfillment, inspiration, respect, or a general sense of purpose in her work, she didn’t know if it was worth staying. 

But her years at the Ministry hadn’t been all misery. They’d been instructive, too. 

“I didn’t meet with Mrs. Kressley.” Constance quirked her head. Hermione waited a beat, then said, “Draco Malfoy escorted me.” 

Constance’s hand closed in a slow fist. She was a social climber, collecting names like Chocolate Frog Cards and trading them when she needed the status boost. Knowing Hermione had had a one-on-one meeting with a CEO would rankle. 

“Mr. Malfoy met with you personally?” 

Hermione tossed her hair. “Of course. We’re former classmates, you know.” Never mind that they’d hated one another. “He wanted to make sure that my questions were answered directly. And it was nice to catch up. Business seems to suit him.” 

Constance’s expression soured. “Was there anything else?”

“No, that was all,” she answered with a bright smile and false cheer. “Enjoy your day!” 

Hermione held the grin until she reached the lift. Once the doors closed, she let it slip and leaned her head against the wall. Schadenfreude’s joy was grim and fleeting, and the problem still hadn’t been solved. Just because her inspection had yielded no answers didn’t mean that there were none to find. 

She returned to her desk, a gloomy grey space in a row full of sunshine; Magical Maintenance worked fast. Her old chair creaked when she sat down, the casters squealing as she turned to face her window. A rainstorm had moved in over the coast, the sky and the ocean the same, bruising blue-grey. Hermione could make out rounded, rocky hills in the steady drizzle. She tapped her wand against the window, and a small, white-lettered caption appeared in the lower right-hand corner: _Shegra, Scotland (58.489, -5.126)_. Fast _and_ thoughtful. She’d have to share the positive feedback with Hephaestus. 

A note dropped onto her blotter as she reached for a quill. The front was addressed with her name, handwritten in a simple script. Her heart lurched when she saw the seal on the back: an ornate _M_ emblazoned on a shield flanked by flying serpents. 

She tore the letter open and hunched over it, unreasonably nervous that someone might see.

> _Dear Hermione,_

She set the letter down. Her first name, written in the same even, unhalting script. Like he hadn’t thought twice about using it. She set her elbows on the desk and buried her head in her hands.

As meaningless gestures went, using her given name was up there, right next to offering to pick up a pub tab after someone else had already covered it or providing input on a report post-submission. But to her, it felt like an olive branch. A peace offering that smoothed over yesterday’s prickly departure and left the door open for further discussion. 

She hadn’t realized how much leaving without resolution had affected her. She didn’t want to examine why that was the case. 

Inhaling deeply, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes.

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _While our opinions on corporate disclosures with regard to outstanding audit queries may differ, I nevertheless enjoyed your company and conversation yesterday._
> 
> _Of all my businesses, Alkemens is the one of which I am most proud. Seeing it through your discerning eyes made me realize how far it has come and the lengths it has yet to go, specifically in ensuring compliance to Ministry regulations and fair business practices._
> 
> _To this end, I would like to extend an invitation to Vincet Semper’s Annual Governance Dinner on Saturday, 21 April. All four subsidiary heads will be in attendance. I give you leave to ask all the questions you wish; they are overdue for a challenge._
> 
> _You would be attending as my personal guest._
> 
> _Regardless of your answer, I look forward to seeing more of you._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  -Draco Malfoy_

She didn’t stop to think or analyze; time was not her ally. Analysis would lead to over-analysis, the most conservative option, and ultimately the status quo. All she did was flip two weeks forward in her planner to check if her Saturday was free.

It was. 

Hermione grabbed the nearest piece of lavender memo parchment, wrote Draco’s name across the front, and penned her answer:

> _Yes._

She checked the clock. It was almost eleven-thirty: more than enough time to stop by the Atrium’s Owl Post Office before the noontime rush, take the lift to the Quidditch League Headquarters on Level 7, and convince her friend to skive off to an early lunch.

Because if anyone could rationalize the insanity that had made her agree to a night out with Draco, it was Ginny Weasley.

* * *

“It’s a date,” Ginny said. 

Their lunch had turned into an _off-site networking event_ , which this time meant lunch, cocktails, and a crawl through Diagon Alley’s finest evening-wear boutiques. Hermione’s hopes for a rational, measured conversation with the witch had rapidly deteriorated. Ginny seemed just as averse to over-analysis as Hermione had been and, much like water taking the path of least resistance, offered the most direct assessment of Hermione’s situation. 

“It’s not,” Hermione argued, though the denial didn’t feel quite true. Perhaps it was Schrödinger’s evening: simultaneously a date and not-a-date until they met up in two weeks and reality collapsed onto the correct possibility. She didn’t know if she could withstand the paradox for that long.

“Hey.” 

Hermione looked up. Ginny peeked out from behind the rack, holding aloft a short, lacy cocktail dress in emerald green. 

Hermione crinkled her nose. “I’m not desperate, you know.” 

Ginny shrugged and put the dress back. “I don’t know,” she argued. “You split with Ron ages ago, and there hasn’t been anyone since.” 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“We’re all busy.” She pulled another dress, canary yellow and equally short. Hermione shook her head. “Other people manage to date, you know. Harry and I—”

“You’re engaged,” Hermione said. “You two don’t count.” 

“Fine.” A strategic pause. “Did you hear Ron and Lavender are giving it another go?” 

Hermione made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat. She hadn’t heard, but admitting it felt unnecessary. 

“He’s busy in the Auror’s Office, and Lavender is with Regulation and Control,” Ginny continued, “but they’re making it work.”

“Congrats to them on finding the time.” 

“Time is a finite resource.” Ginny held out a crimson dress with a plunging neckline; Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s not about finding more, it’s about using what you have efficiently.” 

Hermione gave her a deadpan look. “Are you seriously lecturing me on resource allocation strategies?” 

“I could. I’m a manager-in-training and just took that course. But no, I’m lecturing you on prioritization. You’ve put your career first for eight years, and where has it got you? You’re miserable at the Ministry. We all know it. We can _see_ it. The least you can do is admit it to yourself.” 

Hermione stayed behind the rack, sorting through the hangers without really seeing the dresses. Ginny was right, of course, though Hermione hadn’t thought that her angst was so obvious. She spoke up in meetings and never missed a deadline. She even attended the not-required-but-strongly-recommended social events. What else could she have done to hide her unhappiness? 

“I’m interpreting your silence as agreement,” Ginny said after a moment. “What would it hurt to try something new?” 

“A _Draco Malfoy_ something new?” 

Ginny shrugged. “Whatever blows your skirt up.”

Hermione scoffed and went back to the rack. From a superficial perspective, the idea of trying _something new_ with Draco wasn’t wholly unappealing. He was fit, handsome, and surprisingly—almost suspiciously—civil. But there was a Hippogriff in the room. One Ginny knew nothing about. One that had caused her to make an enemy of a Lead Auditor on Level 5 and change her cubicle view to rainy skies. 

“What if he hasn’t changed?” Hermione asked. “What if he’s the same racist, Dark-magic-practicing git we grew up with?” 

“Then you toss a drink in his face and leave,” Ginny said. “At worst, you come out of it with a free meal and a new outfit. At best, you end the night with a roll in the pumpkin patch and a story to tell. How’s this one?” She held up a frilly purple number with a slit up the thigh. 

“I’m never taking you dress shopping again.” 

“You’re too picky.” 

“It’s a dinner, not a disco.” Hermione moved to the next rack, sorted through a few hangers, then paused. She selected a garment and held it out for Ginny’s review. 

Her eyebrows rose. “Bold. You’d certainly be making a statement.” 

“I think that’s what I’m going for,” Hermione said. “Shoes next. He’s taller than I remembered.” 

“Heels, too? So it _is_ a date,” Ginny said with a grin. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help returning the smile. 

Surely it wasn't. But maybe it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Saturday evening at the Leaky Cauldron meant crowds. The pub was near full, every rickety chair and spindly stool occupied by a Human or Being well into its cups. The smell of burnt bread and bitter wood smoke hung on the air. Hermione had heard rumors of Tom’s attempts to expand his menu; tonight’s offering smelled reminiscent of pizza, but not one she was keen on trying.

She scanned the crowd, but didn’t see much in the low light. She’d arrived five minutes early from a mix of nerves and habit, but hadn’t accounted for the awkward amount of time she’d have to fill. She debated her options: ordering a quick drink, sidling into a dark corner with a view of the entrance, or twisting her way through the crowd to her and Draco’s agreed rendezvous point in the rear courtyard. 

She decided on the courtyard—at least it would make her look purposeful. As she drew away from the wall, a hand caught her elbow. A voice spoke low into her ear. 

“You’re early.” 

She smiled up at Draco. “So are you.” 

“Are you ready?” 

“Lead the way.” 

He cut an easy path through the close-set tables, the crowd parting before him like the sea before a ship. The courtyard was twilit and quiet, the pub’s back door shutting out the ambient noise. Draco did the honors, tapping the bricks that granted them entry into Diagon Alley. Most shops were closed or closing, their windows shuttered and their wares brought in for the night. 

The usual press of shoppers had disappeared as well, replaced by couples walking hand-in-hand to quiet restaurants. A small group of twenty-somethings crossed the street ahead of them, angling toward Olive’s, Diagon’s new martini bar. A large group of laughing women out for a hen night waited outside of the dueling piano bar, a brightly lit establishment called The Sparring Ivories.

“When will Ginny be having hers?” Draco asked after they’d passed.

It took a moment for the pieces to connect. “You know about her and Harry?” 

“Their engagement made the front page of every paper and magazine for two weeks.” 

Hermione ceded the point with a tilt of her head and answered, “August. She decided to wait until after the Quidditch World Cup so her Harpies friends can join.” 

“She thinks they’re making the cup this year?” 

“They’re in the running, from what I’ve heard.” She rolled her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t follow it too closely now that Ginny’s retired.” 

“You don’t like Quidditch?” 

“It’s fine.” Another shrug; she’d endured the question often enough that the justification was rote and passionless. “I enjoy the social aspect more than the play itself.” 

“Been to many games?” 

“Just the ones at Hogwarts. And the World Cup match in our fourth year.” 

Her memories of Quidditch were largely unpleasant. Most of the school games had resulted in injury to at least one friend, and the World Cup had given her nightmares for months. She frowned; did he remember that night with the same clarity? The same terror?

Draco must have read the bitterness in her expression. “My father was one of them that night,” he confessed. “He sent me into the woods to hide. I had no idea what else to do or where else to go.” A short pause, then: “I’m glad they didn’t find you.” 

Hermione stopped in her tracks, burning with righteous anger. She remembered how the Muggle family had hung in the air, twisting and terrified, disrobed and humiliated. Tortured for sport. Targeted simply for being different. 

“That’s not how it sounded,” she countered, her tone as brittle as ice. “I recall you saying that you were in need of a laugh.” 

He stopped, too, and turned to face her. She didn’t care that they were in the middle of the street, that her hands were clenched, or that her cheeks were colored with more than just cosmetics. She knew this conversation would ruin an evening that she had—foolishly, naïvely—been looking forward to. But if this was where they fought, then so be it. Better to have it out now then spend any more time pretending. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” His soft eyes and repentant tone dampened her rage. She hadn’t been expecting contrition. “I was an arse to you in school. I’d like to say that I didn’t know what I was doing, but I did. I was purposefully cruel, and you didn’t deserve it.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“I’ve learned a lot since then,” he said. He took a breath, as if to brace himself. “I almost lost Vincet Semper in my first year as owner.” 

Hermione’s brows ticked up in surprise at the non sequitur. “I didn’t know,” she said mildly. 

“No one did. The company was in debt. Lucius had hidden it from my mother and me, but it wasn’t long after his sentencing that creditors came knocking. I had to find private investors or lose everything. I struggled to persuade them, and I couldn’t understand why because when I looked at our balance sheets, I saw what the company was worth. In trouble, yes, with too much money tied up in assets, barely enough free cash flow to cover our costs, and nothing with which to reinvest. But we had a solid forward strategy—a business plan that would yield dividends in five years and allow us to pay down our debts if only we could keep our head above water. I saw the company’s intrinsic value. To save the company, I had to help other people see it.” 

“So it was _my_ responsibility to prove my worth to you? And everyone else who doubted me because of my blood?” 

“No.” His reply was urgent, and she flinched back as he shifted forward into her space. “No, the exact opposite. It was my responsibility to look harder. To see what other people couldn’t or didn’t want to.” 

“I’m not a balance sheet, Draco.” 

A smile curled his lips. “No, you’re not.” 

“And I can appreciate how difficult it must have been to save your company, but our struggles are not the same.” 

“Not even close.” 

“Then what’s the point here?” She gestured around them, Diagon’s patrons granting them a wide berth as they toed the edge of a public row. “Why tell me any of this?” 

“To help you see it, too. Hermione...” He seemed either on the edge of laughter or the precipice of a reckless confession. He lifted his face to the sky, as if searching the heavens for strength. When he looked back down at her, his wild eyes had steadied. “I understand so much more than I used to. I can’t know everything you’ve gone through, but I do know that I’d need a lifetime to atone for the hurt I’ve caused. I want... I _hope_ tonight can be the start of that.” 

All of the adrenaline that had prepared her for a fight now pulled her toward the opposite end of passion. Reality fuzzed around the edges, as loose and beautiful as a dream, and she swayed toward him, unsteady in her high heels, head spinning with what felt like a significant, long-term promise.

He offered his arm. “Shall we?” 

She nodded and managed an “Okay.” The feel of his body against hers brought the world back into focus. He had apologized, she had nearly forgiven him, and now they walked together through Diagon Alley. Almost like friends. He brought her to the entrance of Jonquil, an exclusive tapas bar with a months-long waiting list. 

“ _Here_?” she asked. 

“The owner is an old friend.” Draco opened the door. “And more than happy to charge an exorbitant convenience fee,” he muttered as he followed her inside.

Exposed brick walls were bathed in golden light, as soft and easy as dawn. Live edge oak tables set for two and four were arranged in neat rows, and beige-padded, high top chairs lined the long bar. The walls were hung with pictures of meadows and vines, creeping roses and iris spikes, wildflowers of every shade and shape. Hermione turned to him, a question poised. Draco was ready with an answer. 

“Yes, the same artist as the photos in the Alkemens lobby.” 

She paused before a field of purple heather curling with morning fog. Slivers of sunlight were just starting to dapple the field. The photograph’s detail was so fine that she could almost smell the sweet soil and feel the gentle breeze. “Who took them?” 

“Dennis Creevey.” 

Her breath caught, and her eyes stung with sudden heat. She’d lost contact with Dennis after the trials, their promises to stay in touch made without real intention. Like she’d done with the Patil twins, and Hannah Abbott, and Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan. Like with so many others who had seemed integral to her survival at Hogwarts, now relegated to footnotes and memories. 

“I didn’t know he was a photographer.” 

“Colin got him into it. No surprise there. He’s got a nice studio in Wales.” 

“How did you… You kept in touch with him?” 

Draco’s shoulders shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. He answered anyway. “We spoke briefly after his victim’s statement. It would’ve ended there, I think, if it hadn’t been for the reparations. He requested personal delivery, so we met once a month for a year. He used the money to start his business. I was his first customer.” 

“And not his last.” 

“No.” Draco looked fondly at the pictures. “I send him referrals when I can. He does portraits, too. I hired him to do Vincet Semper’s promotional material—facility photos, marketing stills for new products, personnel headshots, what have you.” A burst of laughter came from the back room. “Speaking of which, it sounds like they’ve started without us. May I take your cloak?” 

She undid the clasp at her neck and handed it off, confused when he didn’t move to hang it. Then she saw his eyes travel her body and remembered. 

The _bold_ clothing choice she’d made was a black romper. Its halter top covered her chest, but left her shoulders bare, and the belled trouser legs swayed like a skirt when she walked. She had accessorized with a gold metal belt at her waist and matching teardrop earrings. It had achieved the desired effect: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a generally gobsmacked expression. Maybe Ginny was an acceptable shopping partner after all. 

Hermione cleared her throat, bringing him back. 

“You look very… Modern.” 

She bit her tongue to keep from laughing and arched a teasing brow. “Modern is a good thing?” 

“Ye—” Draco’s voice cracked on the word. “Yes.” 

“Then thank you.” 

He cleared his throat and extended an arm to the restaurant’s rear. “Please.” 

She led the way, taking care to sway her hips more than was strictly necessary. 

The back room had one long table set for ten and a small corner bar. Men in fine robes and women in conservative dresses gathered around the high top tables, sipping wine and nibbling _hors d'oeuvres_. At the nearest table, a thick-set man with a salt-and-pepper moustache threw his head back in laughter, a bellow that guests at the other tables somehow ignored. He wiped his eyes, then gave a shout of greeting when he spotted them. 

“About time!” He approached Draco with his hand outstretched. “We were afraid you’d got lost. Or that she’d pulled her wand,” he chortled, shooting Hermione a loaded look. A woman with shining auburn hair took his arm.

“Almost,” Draco said, ever graceful. He took the woman’s hand next. 

“And what man doesn’t deserve to have a wand drawn on him now and again? Keeps things interesting.” She gave Hermione a warm smile. “Janey Ide. It’s a pleasure, Ms. Granger.” 

“Hermione, please.” 

Janey’s brown eyes crinkled with pleasure. “My husband, Ferris.” 

Ferris’ hand was large and calloused, and his fourth and fifth digits were short by two knuckles each. His face was weather worn and sun spotted, and both he and Janey looked as though they’d spent a great deal of their lives laughing. Hermione took a moment to readjust her expectations for the night. She had envisioned a stuffy group of business elites who were more concerned with status than civility. Ferris and Janey, at least, seemed normal. 

“Ferris is the president of Sterling Line, our rail and transportation business,” Draco explained. 

“Been working the lines all my life. Started as a pointsman. Janey here was the foreman.” 

“Fore _woman_ ,” she corrected. 

“Took good care of me, too. This—” He waggled the hand with the amputated fingers. “—Was my fault.” 

“I’d been trying to get him off the lines for _years_ ,” Janey said with mock complaint. “If I’d known he’d need a near-death experience, I would’ve obliged him much sooner.” 

“I’m a stubborn sod,” he admitted with a shrug. 

The couple shared a look that made Hermione’s chest ache. Their easy banter reminded her of her parents. They hadn’t been the same after she’d restored their memories. Or maybe just not the same around her. Not that she could blame them. 

Draco, noticing her silence, cleared his throat. “Nice seeing you both. I’m sure we’ll chat more later. Must make the rounds, you understand.” 

“Yes, so nice to meet you, dear,” Janey said with another smile. Ferris hardly noticed their departure; his attention was for his wife alone. 

Draco made good on his promise. He introduced her to Mike and Mick Desvitier next, a father-son duo responsible for the divestiture of Vincet Semper’s mining business, Extractor. 

“It’s a complicated regulatory landscape,” Mike said, distinguishable from his son only by dint of his thinning hair. 

“A dirty and dangerous business,” Mick agreed after a pull from his beer. 

“Smith’s Mining, they’re more than welcome to it—” 

“Our biggest competitor.” 

“—For the right price.” 

Draco pulled her away before the _right price_ debate could begin in earnest and led her toward a quiet couple in deep conversation at the next high top. The man caught Draco’s eye, shook his head subtly, and held up a finger. The woman turned. Hermione saw a Muggle cell phone pressed to her ear. 

“Ed and Jenna Warden,” he explained, steering her toward the bar. “Jenna runs Keeper Insurance. Wine?” 

“Merlot, please. Why does she have a phone?” 

Draco passed her a long-stemmed glass. He took care to swirl, sniff, and sip, as though he were a connoisseur. Hermione suspected that he was stalling for time. A suspicion confirmed by the sigh before his answer. 

“It’s complicated.” 

Her hackles rose. “Is it _illegal_?” 

“No,” he said at once, eyes unflinching. “Vincet Semper and its subsidiaries are compliant with all Ministry regulations. Keeper does provide business insurance, and the occasional loan. It’s our connection to the Muggle world.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You work with Muggle businesses?” 

“Of course,” he said, defensive. “We don’t discriminate. Any business deemed worthy of investment is considered.” 

“And what businesses have you considered?” 

“Haven’t a clue,” he admitted. “They’re working with a fruit company right now, I believe. Apple?” Draco shrugged. “Jenna’s the expert. I just make sure they have the funds they need.” 

“What does Ed do?” 

“Technology. He’s a Muggle, and quite the whiz, according to Jenna, though I don’t understand a bit of it. It’s all chips and waves and processors…” He took a sip of wine and shook his head. “Like I said, better that they run it. I’d just get in their way.” 

“So what _do_ you do?” 

“I could ask the same question.” An older woman with pixie-cut, snow-white hair approached with an empty wine glass. Following a step behind her was a second woman, about the same age, with striking blue eyes and grey hair pulled into a tidy bun. 

“Kira.” True affection colored Draco’s tone as he took her hand, then her companion’s. “Margaret. May I introduce—”

“Hermione Granger,” Kira finished for him. She placed her glass on the counter and gave Hermione a searching look over the top of her thick-framed, square glasses. “Like the whole world doesn’t know her on sight.” 

“It’s nice to meet you.” Hermione extended her hand. Kira took it, her palm cool, grip firm. “You’re the president of Alkemens. Draco took me on a tour of your facility a couple weeks ago. It’s very impressive.” 

Kira arched a brow and shot Draco a look. “Margaret and I were on vacation two weeks ago. I didn’t receive a Floo call or an owl informing me of a Ministry visit.” 

Draco lifted his chin. “Just some audit follow-ups, nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, you needed the break.” 

“Perhaps you did as well.” 

Hermione blinked; for a moment, she swore she saw Draco’s cheeks color. Margaret coughed into her cocktail napkin, a poor disguise for laughter. Kira turned back to Hermione. 

“And were all your queries answered?” 

“Almost.” She set down her glass, ignoring Draco’s sharp inhale. “Fulgurite.” 

Kira, like her boss, was unshakeable when met with lingering silence. Hermione gave it a full minute before continuing with her question. 

“How is it harvested?” 

“I’m afraid that’s proprietary.” The same boilerplate Draco had given her; she could have screamed. Kira continued. “However, I can assure you that it is within the bounds of fair business practices and does not endanger the lives of our _employees_.” 

Kira’s eyes cut to Draco, and they exchanged a half-second of wordless communication. A threat and a plea; grudging acquiescence and relieved gratitude. While Hermione had no idea what was behind the looks, two things were clear: Draco was hiding something, and Kira knew what it was. 

“I appreciate the assurances,” Hermione said, “but please understand that the Ministry requires more than rote recitations of policy.” 

“I’m afraid rote recitations of policy are all we can provide in this case. Unless…” 

Hermione leaned forward. Beside her, Draco took another sip of wine. 

“Unless?” 

“Well,” Kira said, with a considering look, “a high-level employee would be privy to such information.” 

Draco spluttered, choking on his drink. Kira ignored him. 

“If you were to join Alkemens, you would be privileged to know our _luminary_ leader’s fulgurite procurement strategy. And maybe you would be able to talk some sense—” 

“That’s quite enough!” Draco rasped, interrupting her. “I believe dinner is being served.”

* * *

The dry-sounding Governance Dinner was but a prudish title disguising an evening of loud laughter, increasingly incomprehensible toasts, and limited business conversation. It had the feel of a celebration—Vincet Semper, established in 1807, had turned 200 years old last month—and it was obvious at the evening’s end that several guests, Ferris foremost among them, would not have minded continuing the festivities. 

“Just a quick nightcap.” Ferris good-naturedly chucked his fist into Draco’s shoulder. “One drink.” 

“I know you too well to believe that,” Draco replied with a laugh. “One drink turns into two, which turns into three, which lands us at the top of the Eiffel Tower sipping hot Italian cappuccinos with no memory of how we’d arrived.” 

“That only happened once, and _I_ remember every minute of it.” 

“Then you haven’t shared those memories with me.” 

“There’s no point in telling you yet. I may need the leverage. Though I will say, you were very liberated indeed.” Ferris gave Hermione a wink. “He’s quite an entertaining drunk, you know. I hope you get to experience it yourself.” 

“She’ll never have the chance if you keep prattling on.” Janey urged her husband out of the restaurant. “So nice to meet you, Hermione. Draco, always a pleasure.” 

Draco remained in the restaurant’s threshold, giving a final wave as the couple Disapparated. Then, the smile that had been affixed to his face all night slipped, just a fraction. His shoulders relaxed, and the tightness around his eyes lessened. Indeed, his mask had been so convincing that Hermione hadn’t noticed he’d been wearing one. 

“You’re good at it,” she said. “This running-a-business thing.” The wine had her feeling loose and pleasant. Bolder than normal. She’d learned a lot about him over the past few hours. Seeing him surrounded by people who didn’t know him like she did was like seeing him for the first time. She felt his humor and wit, and his genuine interest in people other than himself. It was fascinating; she hadn’t wanted to look away. 

“Thanks, I’ve had no formal training,” he said with a bitter twist of his lips. 

Hermione felt another thread of connection to him, then. They’d both been thrust out of Hogwarts and into the real world, armed with an encyclopedic knowledge of spells and little else, landing where society expected them to: she at the Ministry, he at his family’s—now _his_ —business. Despite all she’d lived, Hermione still hadn’t felt ready. Even now, she sometimes felt like she was tripping through the days, lucky to end each one on her own two feet. 

Draco Summoned their cloaks and slung hers over his arm when she refused it. She liked the glide of the cool air against her skin after the restaurant’s warmth. The evening’s silence was equally welcome. 

She looked over at him as they walked together. The light of the waxing moon was faint, but Diagon’s flickering gaslights were enough to sketch his expression against the darkness. The angular lines of his face—nose, cheekbones, and jawline as sharp as a knife honed on a whetstone. Expressive eyes, grey to silver depending on the light and his mood. Before now, she hadn’t noticed the variance. He’d always been so shut down. Intentionally, she imagined. Neither of their childhoods had been free of trauma. 

“I had fun tonight,” she said. 

He looked over at her. “Good.” 

“I doubt many other women have had the privilege of seeing Vincet Semper’s inner workings.” 

“Only my mother,” he confirmed. 

Hermione snorted. “Probably the only thing we have in common.” 

He breathed a laugh as well. “Probably for the best.” 

“Why didn’t she attend?” 

“Mother doesn’t concern herself with base business. She prefers an advisory position, and I’m more than happy to oblige.” 

“And why did you invite me? I know the obvious reason,” she continued before he could interrupt. “Your leadership team doubled as character witnesses. You wanted me to believe that you’re a good person.” 

Draco stopped walking, once again heedless of their location in the middle of the street. “Did it work?” 

She took a moment to consider. “For the most part,” she admitted. “I don’t think you’re enough of a sociopath to have fooled eight intelligent adults.” 

His expression flickered, his eyes matte in the low light. “Quite the compliment,” he bit out. 

Hermione shrugged. “You asked.” 

“You still don’t trust me.” 

“More than I did yesterday,” she admitted, “but not enough to stop asking.” 

“Of course not.” He started down the street again, his heels scuffing against the pavement. “Merlin forbid you’re convinced by eight witnesses and your own two eyes.” 

“They were all under your employ,” she said, catching up to him with mincing footsteps. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent an evening in heels. “Hardly an unbiased jury of your peers.” 

“Which member of my leadership team seemed like a sycophant to you?” he snapped. “Please, enlighten me.” 

His vitriol stopped her short. “Well, none of them,” she said. “They were lovely.” 

“But unconvincing.” 

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. And don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing. You’re dodging my question. Why did you invite me? Really?” 

He scowled her, and Hermione knew that her instincts had been correct. He’d wanted her to attend for more than just a chance to apologize or prove himself. He’d had an ulterior motive. Probably still did. 

But he wouldn’t yield without a fight. A muscle in his jaw pulsed, and he turned back toward the Leaky Cauldron. Silent. Stubborn. 

"You let me in.” She shouted it at his back and saw him tense in response. “Why?” 

His head tilted back, searching the clear sky for strength once again. “You wanted in.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because _you_ came to _me_ , Granger.” He wheeled and was before her in three long steps, invading her space, his body like a fire driving away the night’s chill. “That audit was flawless. Alkemens passed with flying colors, as I knew it would. But you were so desperate for something different that you caught hold of the smallest, most insignificant of threads and started to pull. In fact, I don’t think you care what the answer is. I think you’re more interested in the hunt.” 

His proximity made her head spin. Or was that the wine? She grabbed his arm to steady herself, her aching feet a vague and distant complaint. She’d stand on these torturous shoes for a millennium if it meant finally seeing eye-to-eye with him. 

“So what if I am?”

“Is that an admission?” 

She lifted her chin. “No.” 

Draco laughed. “Of course it isn’t. Because the only person on the planet more stubborn than I am is _you_ , and Merlin forbid you admit to something human.” 

“I’m not—”

“If you’re not in it for the hunt, then enjoy disappointment, because you’re never going to find an answer that satisfies you. But if you’re lying, which I suspect you are…” He dipped his head low, and his nose brushed her hair as he whispered in her ear. “Then this chase is going to be the most fun you’ve had in years.” 

Her heart raced. She angled her head toward him, but he straightened before she could do more than breathe his name. The space he’d filled hummed with lost potential. 

“Shall I Floo you home?” 

His eyes sparkled in Diagon’s unsteady light, hiding laughter and prompting her pride into an untimely resurgence. 

“No.” She turned away from him. The Leaky Cauldron beckoned her into a reality where she hadn’t just been bested by Draco Malfoy, of all people. “I can make it on my own.” 

“I never doubted that.” 

She whirled on him, only then realizing that he’d been following her toward the pub. He was closer than she expected; she had to tilt her head back to face him square. “Oh sod off, won’t you?” She regretted the words the moment she spoke them, but she couldn’t stop. Whatever filter was normally in place had disintegrated, and her wounded ego had its eye on vengeance. “Play games with some other witch. I’m not interested.” 

“But you _are _interested,” he insisted. “You want the game. That's why you came to Alkemens, that’s why you came tonight, and that's why you'll keep coming. And do you want to know a secret, Hermione?" Draco leaned close again. "I want you to."__

__With that, he Disapparated. Alone in Diagon Alley, Hermione balled her fists, leaned her head back to face the sky, and loosed her frustration in a scream._ _

__Only then did she feel the night’s chill. He had taken her cloak with him._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

“It was a date.”

Hermione cut a sideways look at Ron Weasley. He sat sprawled on the old iron bench beside her, an arm draped over the top railing, legs stretched long across cushions bleached colorless by their time in the sun. He’d claimed exhaustion when the pick-up Quidditch match started in The Burrow’s rear garden, but Hermione now assumed a different motive. She sipped her cocktail, which was a little light on alcohol considering the conversation’s turn. 

“Ginny told you.” 

“Ginny told Harry. Harry told me.” 

“Of course he did,” Hermione muttered. “Merlin forbid anything remain a secret for over two weeks.” 

They lapsed into a brief silence, and Hermione watched the match without any real interest. Ginny’s braids whipped behind her as she dodged past Harry and passed to Percy, whose Beater’s bat was tucked under his arm. Unable to defend himself, Percy was nearly unseated by George’s expertly aimed Bludger. Harry regained control of the Quaffle and reversed the advance. It was a play pattern that had repeated for the last twenty minutes, the goals from either two-man team equally scarce. 

“Do you like him?” 

“As much as one can,” she hedged. 

Her and Ron’s breakup had been mutually decided. Neither of them had been truly happy, and they’d ended things without animosity or bitterness over eight months ago. In fact, Hermione felt they’d become better friends since. And while their intimate history cemented her affection, there were limits to how much of her personal life she felt comfortable sharing with him. 

Ron nodded and tipped the bottle of ale he’d been nursing to his lips, draining it. “Will you see him again?” Though he didn’t shift or shout, Hermione felt his tension nevertheless. 

“I’ll have to. He has my cloak.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know.” She sighed and leaned back against the wicker frame of her chair, grateful that he didn’t press her for an answer. She didn’t have one yet. 

Hermione hadn’t told anyone else about the discrepancy in Alkemens’ inventory record. For one thing, it wouldn’t have done much good. Constance had closed the audit, and while Hermione normally didn’t balk at defying authority, starting a fight with another department simply didn’t seem like a good use of her energy. It was hard to fight against a system that was too entrenched in its own bureaucracy to change. 

But that wasn’t the only reason she’d kept mum. Her suspicions about Draco’s fulgurite procurement strategy were serious. If there were any truth to them, then he could land in Azkaban, just like his father. She would have to testify at his trial. Would have to look him in the eye as the Aurors dragged him away and watch as the legacy he’d worked to rebuild crumbled around him. And she’d be responsible for all of it. 

Ethically, legally, and logically, she knew silence was the wrong choice. 

But that didn’t stop it from feeling right. 

“I won’t pretend to like it,” Ron said. 

Hermione bristled. “I don’t need your permission or your approval.” 

“No,” he agreed, “you don’t. But I’m allowed to be concerned. Malfoy may not be the same prig he was in school. Maybe he’s even turned into a halfway decent businessman. But you don’t know him.” 

“Neither do you. And this feels like more than just friendly concern.” In fact, it felt downright hostile. “You were willing to speak for him at his trial. What changed?” 

“He wasn’t trying to date one of my friends at the time.” 

“I assume you gave Harry the same lecture when he started dating Ginny?” 

He met her scowl with an aggrieved look. “That’s different.” 

“That’s a double standard,” she corrected, the words snapping past her teeth. Since she’d known him, Ron had always been able to find the most efficient route between his foot and his mouth. 

He grabbed her arm as she walked past, rising to join her. “Wait, I didn’t mean—” 

“I’m not just going to sit here and be judged by you for an entire evening,” she said. “I’ll tell Molly I’m not feeling well. You can tell the rest of them whatever you’d like.” 

She tipped her head toward the makeshift pitch where the foursome had landed. Ginny high-fived Percy and landed a mock-punch to George’s arm. George mimed grievous injury, and Harry, showing solidarity for his partner’s trauma, hauled Ginny off her feet. He slung her over his shoulder, his laughter almost louder than her outraged screams.

Ron dipped his head low. “I’m sorry,” he said, blue eyes darting toward the approaching group, wary of their row going public. “Please stay? Mum made rhubarb pie for pudding.”

“Fine.” Hermione pulled her arm away. “And for the record, we’re not _dating_. It was one night out.”

The side of his mouth dropped in a frown. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”

* * *

May arrived with warm and sunny weather, but Hermione saw nothing but slate skies drizzling over the British Isle’s coastline. Magical Maintenance, it turned out, had done too good a job, charming her window to show not only thunderstorms, but also run-of-the-mill rain showers. 

She couldn’t bring herself to submit the requisition to correct it. There was something soothing about the coast, dark skies be damned. She could imagine she were anywhere but the Ministry. Maybe in an office just off the shore, where she could walk the beach during lunch to clear her head. Maybe on holiday, a new novel waiting tableside while her responsibilities remained shelved for the week, enjoying a cuppa and listening to the rain. 

Sunk into one such daydream, Hermione didn’t notice Draco approach her desk until he cleared his throat. Lukewarm tea sloshed over the lip of her mug as she startled, splattering her dark skirt. At least it wouldn’t stain. 

She brushed away the spill and stood, trying to recoup a modicum of composure. 

“Draco. What are you doing here?” 

He looked down at his hands, which held her cloak. The obvious answer. He held it out to her, and she muttered a “Thanks,” as she took it. He didn’t seem to hear her, however. His eyes were fixed on her window. 

“What’s this?” 

Hermione looked behind her, needlessly verifying that, indeed, her window continued to show a coastal downpour on Scotland’s eastern edge. 

She pulled an excuse out of the ether. “Research.” 

He arched a brow. “What sort of research do you do in Improper Use?” 

“That’s classified.” 

“I’m sure.” He smirked and leaned a hip against her cubicle wall. “I thought I’d hear from you sooner.” 

Her eyes narrowed. She mirrored his pose, leaning against her desk, arms crossed. “Why would you think that?” 

“I had your cloak.” 

“I have more than one.” 

He shrugged. “I thought you enjoyed our dinner.” 

“ _Dinner_ was lovely.” They traded a loaded glance. Draco broke first, dropping his eyes with a quiet smile. 

“Fair enough. I don’t suppose you’d be open to lunch.” 

She bit her tongue hard, borrowing just enough time to conjure the lie. “No.” 

Draco nodded like he wasn’t surprised. Like if she’d answered anything else, he would’ve been. His gaze lingered on her window, faraway, drifting in thought. Then, he snapped back, apparently decided. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Hermione.” 

She watched him go, well-dressed, poised, and as out of place in the Ministry as a wolf among a litter of Crups.

“What was that about?” Harry Potter tried to play it casual with his cup of tea and relaxed stance, but his discretion was undercut by Ron’s focused attention from their desks on the office’s opposite side. 

“Just returning my cloak.” She held it up as proof, only then noticing the fresh scent it carried. Her cheeks colored; he’d had it laundered. 

“Took him long enough.” 

Hermione groaned. “Not you, too.” 

Harry’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What?” 

“Ginny told you, you told Ron, and you expect _me_ to be in the dark?” 

He had the good grace to blush and the decency to not insult her intelligence further. “Are you seeing him again?”

“That none of your business.” 

“That’s true.” 

“Then why ask? _Friendly curiosity_?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry’s frank response slowed her growing irritation. “Oh.” 

“I haven’t heard from him since the trial. How’s he been?” 

She waited a moment before answering, suspicious. “He’s good…” 

Harry nodded, took another sip of tea. “You had a good time with him?” 

“It was fine…” 

Another nod. “We support you, you know.” 

“We?” 

“Ginny and I. And Ron,” he added, almost an afterthought. Hermione huffed a laugh. 

“Sure you do.” She turned to hang up her cloak. “Right up until the point when I _do_ see him again, and Ron decides it’s his job to police our every interaction.” She shot a glare across the office and smirked in grim satisfaction when Ron flinched. 

“They’ll never be friends.” 

“The expectation is civility, not friendship,” she snapped. “And if not toward Malfoy, then toward me, at least. He was a complete arse last weekend.”

“You know how he gets.” 

“Too well,” she grumbled. “And you’re defending him. As usual.” 

“I’ll talk to him.” 

“You think he’ll listen?”

Harry frowned, thought a moment, and offered a revision. “I’ll talk to Lavender.” 

Hermione groaned. “Don’t tell _Lavender_.” 

“She’ll find out eventually,” Harry said. Hermione knew he was right. 

She collapsed into her chair, indulging in a petulant slouch and turning her back on Harry, preferring a view of the dreary ocean. 

“I’ve seen enough to not believe in coincidence, Hermione,” he said quietly. “If Malfoy’s reappeared, it’s because he wants something. Just keep that in mind when you see him next.” 

Her friend left before she could think of a fitting retort. Which was for the best, considering he was probably right about that, too. 

She might have started the association with Draco, but he was continuing it. Actively. The question of _why_ had to be considered. Was it the chase, as he’d implied? Was he unfulfilled in the same way she was? Bored and weary of the status quo? Was she simply a distraction? Or was there something more?

* * *

Her first development came the third week of May. Through the steady rain, barely visible against the storm-darkened sea, stood a pair of Dragon-hide boots, soggy black socks striped with grey folded neatly beside them.

Hermione grabbed her cloak and her wand and dashed toward the lift. She waited, fingers drumming against her thigh, as it took its sweet time arriving. She shoved past the doors and slammed the button for Level 6, but just before the doors closed, Jim Karr, a quiet man from Intoxicating Substances, stuck his arm in and embarked. 

Oblivious to her discontent, he gave her a friendly nod and pressed the key for Level 4. Hermione bit back a curse; Karr was costing her valuable time. 

She quick-walked to the Portkey registration desk and interrupted the customary inter-office pleasantries with her demand. 

“54.490, -0.608. Whitby Beach, North Yorkshire.” 

The young desk attendant matched her urgency, springing into action with wide eyes. He shoved the proper forms across the desk and unlocked the Portkey-approved rubbish bin with a smack from the flat of his hand. He grabbed a Flake wrapper from the collection of crisps bags and empty bean tins and tossed it at her. 

She caught it midair, dropped the quill on the completed forms, and whispered, “ _Portus_.” 

She landed on a hill overlooking the sea, just beyond the bounds of an old churchyard. The overgrown scrub grass, matted down by the wind and rain, was nevertheless long enough to soak her to the ankles. A gust of wind lifted her hood, too quick for her to catch. In mere moments, her curly hair had flattened. 

Cursing, she struck out across the hill, pacing the curve of the coast in neat lines. After ten minutes, she cursed again, much louder this time, though her shout was swallowed by a distant rumble of thunder. The boots were gone, a shallow impression in the soaked grass the only evidence that she hadn’t imagined them. Her first lead, and all she’d earned from the trip was her own pair of ruined shoes, an afternoon of frizzy, unmanageable hair, and an emergency Portkey charge of fifteen Knuts docked from her biweekly pay.

June proceeded similarly. Hermione’s window showed overcast skies and sleeting rain, and the faintest flash of lightning sent her rocketing from her chair. 

To prevent the sacrifice of her footwear to the elements, Hermione kept a pair floral-patterned wellies beneath her desk. She’d perfected the route to Level 6, shaving minutes from her time by way of the disused stairwell. The Portkey desk attendant—a motivated young man named Leonard Shoulder-Bow—agreed to keep a stack of partially completed forms for her particular use. 

When she wasn’t Portkeying around the countryside, she was sunk into research. Books on meteorology, tables of weather data compiled from the last decade, the 2007 Old Farmer’s Almanac, and a map of the British Isles lay strewn over Improper Use incident reports and meeting request memos. Arthur Weasley had connected her to one of his Misuse colleagues, who had helped her modify a Muggle radio. She kept it tuned to the weather station in her desk’s top drawer and charmed it to activate with a double-tap of her wand.

It wasn’t enough. 

No matter how keen her vision, no matter how quickly she moved after seeing the telltale abandoned boots and soggy socks, she never caught him. The boots were always gone by the time she arrived, leaving a faint outline in the sand that was quickly washed away by the rain.

* * *

“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little far?” Harry shot Hermione a look askance before placing a banana onto his tray. 

Harry was well-suited to the Auror department. He’d practically been raised to do the job, his adolescent years a lesson in defense, self-sacrifice, and verifying his instincts against objective information. The department had also sharpened his soft skills, teaching him about suspect interrogation and the importance of timing when revealing information or broaching sensitive topics. 

She could practically see the Auror handbook’s paragraph on engaging a high-profile target running through his mind. 

_Approach the target in a public location. Ensure the presence of onlookers if the situation is considered controlled and safe. Most high-profile targets will cooperate to avoid a public scene, allowing for conversation, if not apprehension._

The Ministry canteen bustled with activity. The lunch queue stretched out behind her, and tables filled up ahead. 

_It is best to engage your target after they have initiated a task (e.g., a monetary transaction, a meal, or another commitment requiring their time and attention.)_

In Hermione’s right hand was her typical sack lunch. In her left, a bright green Granny Smith apple; she’d run out of fruit just yesterday. 

“What do you mean?” she asked stiffly.

“He means your cursed window,” Ron said from behind her. 

_In the event your high-profile target does not cooperate, have another Auror on scene (preferred) or on call (minimally) to provide additional support._

“It’s shown nothing but rain for two months now,” he continued. “I’m about to write Maintenance myself.” 

Hermione whipped around to shoot him a warning glare and maybe, just maybe, pick a fight. 

“No fruit today, Ron?” she asked with a pointed look.

“What he means,” Harry interjected, heading off the argument, “is that we don’t see what it’s gotten you. You’ve had no leads—”

“That’s not true. I’ve seen four pairs of shoes and a cloak.” 

“It was a loose umbrella.” 

Hermione shot Ron another glare. “And a bacon sandwich? I thought you and Lavender were on a _cleanse_.”

“Mind your own lunch,” Ron sniped. 

“Mind your own window.” 

“Hermione, we’re worried.” Harry, once again attempting to de-escalate.

But she was tired of their misguided attempts at protection and persuasion. She knew what she was doing. Or at least she had a better idea of it than they did. 

“You’re not worried, you’re interfering.”

“With what?” Ron muttered. “You haven’t even heard from the git all summer.” 

That stung. True, Draco had promised her a chase. A game. But to go two months without hearing from her opponent made Hermione wonder if they were even playing anymore. Or maybe he was playing her, leading her on while she slipped down dunes and tromped through scrub after him, as blind and stumbling as a newborn Niffler. 

A bitter taste flooded her mouth. Harry must have seen it. 

“What are you hoping to find, anyway?” he pressed. They had reached the till. Harry handed over a handful of coins, not paying attention as the attendant passed him his change. “The auditors gave him a pass.” 

Hermione handed over two Knuts for her apple and tried not to let the guilt show on her face. She still hadn’t told Harry or Ron the other reason she was pursuing Draco. To them, she probably seemed like an obsessive. And maybe she was. Sometimes, she lost sight of the reason herself. 

“They weren’t looking hard enough,” she muttered. 

“What makes you think you will?” Ron asked. 

Hermione turned to retort, but stopped short at the sight of Draco approaching them from across the canteen. Dressed in robes this time—light grey over a seasonally blue Oxford and tailored slacks—and with eyes only for her. 

Her thoughts might have been bitter. His intentions might have been obscure. But the way he looked at her, how his singularly focused gaze made her feel like the only person in the room, was real. Her heart lurched into a gallop.

“Draco,” she said, trying to quell her smile. “Hi.” 

“Nice to see you, Hermione.” 

“What brings you to the Ministry?” 

“Supplier meeting with the Department of Mysteries. They’re getting into Potioneering, but they won’t tell me much else.” 

“Shouldn’t be telling you _anything_ ,” Ron muttered. Hermione threw an elbow into his stomach; her smile widened as his breath left with an _oof_.

Draco’s eyes flicked over her shoulder, filled with poorly hidden amusement. “I was supposed to meet Theo Nott for lunch—he’s an Obliviator—but he cancelled.” 

“Maybe he forgot?” 

Not her finest work, but it earned an obliging chuckle. “Maybe.” 

Harry cleared his throat. “Nice seeing you, Malfoy. If you’ll excuse us…” 

Catching Harry’s hint, Ron nudged his elbow into Hermione’s, urging her forward. Draco extended a staying hand. 

“Perhaps you’d care to join me?” 

Ron scoffed. “Like she’d ever—”

“Refuse such a gracious offer.” Hermione set her apple onto Ron’s tray and pushed her lunch pail at Harry, who bobbled his tray to take it. “Make sure that gets refrigerated, won’t you?” She instructed Harry as she passed. 

She kept walking—past Draco, past the second till—and worried for a moment that she’d have to stop and deal with their collective surprise. But Draco was quicker than that. He caught on and caught up in just two strides. 

“Well done,” he said, eyes forward. From her peripheral, she saw him grinning. 

“Thanks for the save. They were being…” She trailed off with a huff and a shake of her head. 

“Prats?” Draco offered. 

Their eyes met, and the flash of instinctive annoyance Hermione felt at the jab faded into a rueful smile. He wasn’t being cruel; he was being accurate. 

“Prats,” she agreed. 

The canteen emptied into the Ministry’s Atrium, which hummed with activity from the lunchtime crowd. She followed close behind Draco as he cut a path to a Floo. 

“Jonquil has a wonderful lunch menu, if that suits,” Draco said, holding the jar of Floo Powder out for her. 

“Is that where you were going to take Theo?” 

“Until I saw you, I’d been resigned to the canteen.” Her heart skipped a beat. “Meet at the Leaky?” 

She nodded and followed him through the whirl of green flames. He was there when she landed, lending his hand as she stepped from the hearth and dusting ash from the shoulders of her robe. 

Diagon Alley’s shops bustled with patrons, the pleasant mid-July weather bringing people outside. The line for Freddo, which sold the best gelato Hermione had ever eaten, was wrapped nearly around the corner from the shop’s service window. Slug & Jiggers Apothecary had erected multiple umbrellas over its barrels of outdoor goods to protect them from the light and heat. 

Jonquil’s noontime customers consisted mostly of sharp-dressed executive types. Indeed, she recognized a few faces from the Minister’s level, old men with flushed cheeks who were well into their third round of drinks, by Hermione’s guess. 

Draco leaned in to whisper to the hostess. The young woman nodded, smiled, and gestured them back into the restaurant, with a promise: “I’ll let them know.” 

Draco met Hermione’s questioning look with a grin and led her through the close-set tables. To the left was the banquet room that had provided the setting for their first evening together. It still felt wrong to call it a _date_. Draco turned right instead and pressed his palm to a hidden panel door, which opened into a private courtyard.

The space was paved with wide, flat stones, and a tall wooden fence ensured privacy from nosy neighbors. At one end was an herb garden. Chives, parsley, dill, basil, tarragon, oregano, and rosemary were arranged in tidy rows of individual terracotta pots, labeled, staked, and carefully tended. Two more rows followed behind. Opposite the herb garden was a table set for two, draped with an off-white tablecloth and shaded by an umbrella that moved with the sun. 

It was private, peaceful, and charming. Her mouth quirked in a teasing grin. 

“Are you sure you weren’t going to bring Theo here?”

“He hasn’t yet earned the privilege,” Draco said with a chuckle. 

“And I have?” 

He pulled out a chair for her. “You put up with me for an entire evening.” 

She waited until he was seated, too, before delivering her riposte. “I’ve been putting up with you for an entire _summer_.” 

“Count yourself lucky. I had to live with the git for seven years.” 

Hermione froze as Blaise Zabini approached their table, lean, angular, and menacing as a jungle cat, even when burdened with a bottle of white wine and pair of long-stemmed glasses. He set the glasses down and poured a small measure into Draco’s, greeting him with a nod. He turned to Hermione next, and she suddenly recalled Draco’s throwaway comment from their dinner in April.

“The _old friend_ who owns the place, I assume?” Hermione asked. 

“ _Friend_ is situational,” Draco corrected. “But generally, yes.” 

“How generous,” Blaise replied in a deadpan. “ The wine is from L'Oeuvre du Ciel, a true French Chardonnay.” Draco lifted his glass. “A 2005 vintage, unoaked, which makes it somewhat unusual for the year. A good choice, in my opinion: the limestone minerality shines against the lemon-and-apple acidity.” 

After a considering sip, Draco nodded. Blaise poured Hermione’s glass before topping up Draco’s. She left it untouched.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” she said. 

“I don’t,” Blaise replied. “I run a business.” 

“I do the cooking, and a good thing, too.” A man with olive skin, a flop of dark, curly hair, and a full beard joined Blaise at their table. He draped an arm across Blaise’s shoulders and jostled him close. “Not all of us grew up with elves.” 

“As you so often remind me.” 

“Alonso Naja.” He offered Hermione his hand. “I’m afraid I cannot stay long, but I could not let the opportunity to meet you pass.” 

She immediately warmed to Alonso’s good-nature. “It’s my pleasure. Your food is wonderful, by the way. I don’t think I’d ever eaten so well as that evening in April.” 

Alonso exclaimed and clapped a hand to Blaise’s shoulder. “Another happy customer! I am a good investment, no?” 

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Yes, dear.” 

Alonso barked a laugh and pressed a kiss to Blaise’s cheek. “Correct answer! He can be taught.” With a wink, he took his leave, and Hermione swore she saw a flush creep across Blaise’s sharp cheekbones. 

Awkward silence threatened. Hermione cleared her throat before it could strike. “Have you been together long?” 

“Three years,” Blaise answered. “Feels like a three months as often as it does three decades.” His pale blue eyes shifted between her and Draco. “How long have you two been seeing each other?” 

“Oh, we’re not—” Hermione stuttered.

“April,” Draco answered. His eyes flicked to Hermione’s in a question. She felt heat suffuse her cheeks. 

“We’re just… Friends,” she finished, lamely. 

“Situational?” Blaise asked Draco, his brow arched. “Or does she get a pass?” 

“No need for jealousy, Zabini.” 

If Blaise noticed the deflection, he let it go without comment. “Nice to see you out of the manor, regardless. I thought you’d become a hermit.” 

“Not yet,” Draco said from behind a forced smile. Blaise’s was natural in comparison, teasing and fully cognizant of the thin line he trod. And Hermione hadn’t missed the significance of it. Two months of silence had made her question everything. But if Draco had indeed been occupied, if there had been a reason for his absence… 

Blaise must have read the question on her brow. “How’s Narcissa doing? Fully recovered, I hope?” 

“Just about, thank you,” Draco answered. “I’ll tell her you asked after her.” 

“What happened?” Hermione asked. 

Blaise’s polite smile turned a shade smug. “Still playing close to the chest,” he admonished. “You’ll learn soon enough. Enjoy your lunch.” Then, turning to Hermione: “Hope to see you again soon.” He sounded sincere.

Hermione waited until the trick door closed before turning back toward Draco, who glowered at his pear-pale wine. 

“Draco, I don’t mean to pry—”

“But you want to know,” he finished for her. He leaned forward, sipped from his glass. “She got sick. Some respiratory thing. A virus, they think.” 

Hermione had thought that she’d made a mistake. Misspoken, perhaps, or pressed him too hard. She’d never considered that his distance might be due to something larger. Something more important than a cat-and-mouse game played between two adults. Guilt sank in her stomach like a stone; she should have reached out. 

“Was it serious?” 

“Yes.” Draco shifted in his seat, and the surface of her wine rippled with the movement of his leg beneath the table. He was more uncomfortable than Hermione had ever seen him. Still, she had one more question. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

His eyes bounced to hers and then away, settling somewhere over her shoulder. He took his time with the answer. 

“I prefer my private life to remain that way.”

Translation: he wouldn’t have told her if it hadn’t been for Blaise. 

She tried not to take it personally. Draco’s was perhaps the most infamous case of Lord Voldemort using love as leverage. For at least two years, the madman had held the lives of Lucius and Narcissa as bargaining chips against Draco’s continued obedience. He had reversed the natural order, making a child responsible for its parents’ survival, and Draco had done whatever was necessary to keep them alive. 

Hermione knew the wound that caused and how deep the damage cut. She had worked through her trauma over years of PsychoSocial Healing, and her relationship with her parents—while strained—was now something she could discuss without breaking down into tears.

From his body language alone, Hermione guessed that Draco had progress still to make. She’d seen flashes of his discomfort when he’d discussed his life after the trial—the reparations he’d had to pay, the struggles he’d had with Vincet Semper. Discussing his mother’s welfare, even with a friend, was an entirely different level of distress. 

“I understand,” she said. “I won’t pry further. Thank you for telling me.” 

The ripples in her wine glass ceased, and Hermione finally took a sip. Flavors of lemon and apple burst across her palate, the acidity present but not overpowering, cut at just the right moment by the taste of wet limestone, which lingered at the finish. 

“Blaise was right,” she said, redirecting the conversation. “This is good.” 

“He’s a snob, but he knows what he’s talking about,” Draco agreed. He looked more himself now, on firmer footing behind his mask of cool composure, engaged in a conversation he could control. 

“How did Blaise and Alonso meet?” 

“At a wine tasting, I believe.” 

“A bit of a risk, going into business with your significant other.” 

An enigmatic smile crossed Draco’s lips. “You think so?” 

“It could all go wrong,” she said. “One personal disagreement could lead to professional disaster, or vice versa.” 

“Or both partnerships could be strengthened by it. If each party commits to open communication and resolving differences through integrative negotiation—” 

Hermione laughed. “You make it sound like a business agreement.” 

Draco rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not so dissimilar.”

“Who could commit to that?” 

“I have,” he answered frankly. “As has my leadership team.” 

“You’re not in a relationship with your leadership team.” 

“I’d make the same promise to my partner. I hope she would be willing to do the same for me.”

Hermione took another sip of wine, but it wasn’t enough to hide her blush. Fortunately, garden salads had appeared before them, and she distracted herself with spearing vegetables rather than thinking of the other promises Draco might make his partner. 

“How’s your summer been?” Draco asked, moving on to a safer subject. Or so he thought. 

“Busy,” Hermione said, cutting her eyes to him from her salad. 

“Work?” 

“In a manner of speaking. My job has required a _boots on the ground_ approach lately.” 

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. His expression of trained neutrality barely flickered. 

“Good benefits, though?” 

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Decent.”

“Thirty days of leave?” 

“Twenty-eight,” she admitted. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, a predator sensing weakness. 

“Retirement?” 

“A pension. Is this a lunch or an interview?” 

“Tell me about a time you disagreed with a coworker.” 

Hermione snorted a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.” 

“I know you’ve been violent in the past,” he said. “I’d like some assurance that your current style of conflict resolution is less… Hands on.” 

“You deserved it,” she challenged, vaguely surprised when he nodded. 

“That may be, but I can’t have you slapping at every executive who dares to disagree with you.” 

She rolled her eyes and laughed again. “You don’t want me to work for you.” 

Their empty plates disappeared through the table. Draco leaned forward and topped up her wine. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Because… Because you’re _you_ , and I’m _me_ , and—”

“You’d get thirty-five days of leave, a pension, and stock options.”

His gaze was steady, but she knew he was teasing her. He had to be. 

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “Do you even have an opening?” 

“I do, in fact. I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.” 

In the brief, hanging silence, a charcuterie board appeared atop the table, a feast of cured meats and cheeses accompanied by fresh and dried fruit, roasted nuts, sweet and spicy jams, water biscuits, and crusty bread. Though ravenous, Hermione barely registered the spread. The notion that Draco was _actually_ trying to poach her from the Ministry had just landed. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Kira wants to retire. She told me in January and agreed to stay an additional year after we indentify a suitable successor. We’ve been brainstorming names ever since. The only one neither of us can find fault with is yours.” 

Hermione gaped. Draco set a piece of parmigiano across a water cracker, topped it with prosciutto and pear marmalade, and popped it whole into his mouth. Nonplussed, as if he hadn’t just dangled an executive position before her like a woodlouse before a Bowtruckle. He made himself a second cracker of brie and soppressata and chanced a look at her before indulging. He frowned. 

“Do I need to call a Healer?” 

“I’m not qualified to run Alkemens,” she said. 

“That’s true. Here, eat.” He placed the brie cracker onto her plate and broke her off a cluster of grapes. 

“By our assessment, you’re about fifty percent qualified,” he said, casually constructing several bread-meat-cheese-jam morsels and setting them on her plate. “Not a perfect fit, not yet. But you’re brilliant, you know Ministry regulations better than anyone else, and you have a knack for getting what you want. You’d have a year of tutelage under Kira to bring you up to speed on the supply chain and logistics side of the operation. I’ll teach you business and finance. We’ve also budgeted for executive leadership courses and seminars. You’ll be almost fully independent within a year. In eighteen months?” He made a dismissive gesture. “I have no concerns.” 

“But I’m… I’m so young.” Hermione busied herself with her plate, trying to hide her embarrassment. But it was true. She was twenty-seven and—aside from helping to defeat the world’s most powerful Dark wizard at age seventeen—felt like she hadn’t accomplished much else. She didn’t have the right experience to run a business. 

“So am I,” Draco said, not without some heat. “Do you think I was ready to take Vincet Semper over? To step into my father’s shoes while he was in prison, with my final years at Hogwarts being what they were? I knew the cards were stacked against me, ready to explode at the slightest nudge, but I put my head down and I did the work.

“It won’t be easy,” he continued. “It will be long days and high pressure. A decent amount of travel. But I think you’re due for a challenge. You need the opportunity to prove yourself, just like I did.” 

“Why would you think that?” 

Draco reached into his front breast pocket and withdrew a necklace, its pendant an irregular, opaque crystal caged in an intricate gold lattice. 

“Fulgurite,” she said on a breath. Gently, he lowered it onto her open palm. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” 

Hermione looked at him, surprised to find that he had been watching her. A smile played across his lips, savoring her approval as if it were fine wine. 

“You _made_ this?” 

Draco nodded. “A bit of a hobby since getting into this business. My mother insists it’s a waste of time and resources, and maybe she’s right. But there’s something about it, isn’t there?” 

Her eyes drifted back to the necklace. It flashed in the sunlight, and Hermione saw more shades of white than she knew existed. Near transparent in some areas, fogged like sea glass in others, run through with thin, crackling capillaries of ivory, which forked from a central alabaster vein. She brought it closer and was surprised to feel the crystal vibrate against her fingertips. A soft hum, steady, like the blood running beneath her skin, interrupted now and again by a strong pulse. A flash of power, a shadow of the lightning that had formed it. 

“We both keep returning to it,” Draco said. She held the piece out for him, but he had withdrawn his hand. She placed it beside her plate instead, a pile of delicate gold protecting a catalytic fortune. “I know you haven’t let it go,” he continued. “I know you’ve been trying to catch me.” 

“It was you on the beaches this whole time.” She’d already known as much, but witnessing his confirmatory nod sent her heart, and hopes, plummeting. “You were harvesting fulgurite during those storms.” 

“I was.” 

“You know I have to report you.” She fought to control a nonsensical grief. She was being stupid. Draco had all but admitted to using Dark magic. He’d broken the law and needed to be punished. The fact that she enjoyed his company didn’t make him any less of a criminal. 

The game was over, and her win felt decidedly like a loss. 

His warm expression withered, like flowers beneath the first autumn frost. “I’m not controlling the weather. You have my word.” 

That tired denial. Even now, it sparked her anger. “That’s never been enough, and you know it. I need _proof_. If you would just tell me how—” 

“Come work with me and find out for yourself.” 

“I can’t.” She fisted her hands into her napkin, angry at herself for having standards. Angry at him for making her stick to them. “I can’t work for someone who thinks he’s above the law.” 

“A little hypocritical coming from someone who works at a famously corrupt institution.” 

She ignored the barb. There was too much truth in it to defend. “I appreciate the offer, Draco. I really do. But I can’t—”

“You’re afraid.” 

She bristled. “I’m not.” 

“You’re miserable at the Ministry.” Draco struggled to keep an even tone; frustration colored his every word. “But at least it’s a misery you know. It’s comfortable, and you’ve sunk so deeply into the doldrums that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to try something new. You’ve let your own risk aversion paralyze you against the very _thought_ of change. You’re stuck, Hermione. And you’ll grab at any excuse that justifies staying that way.” 

The accusations hurt, the hard truth underpinning them striking her ego like hail at terminal velocity. Instinct dictated that she cast a shield, and she was too angry to weigh the consequences of it. 

“Maybe I am miserable,” she snapped. “Maybe I am cautious and comfortable and complacent, but none of that matters because even if I wasn’t those things, my answer would still be no for one reason and one reason only: _I don’t trust you_.” 

His expression shuttered, the urgency in his eyes and along his brow fading away until all that remained was disappointment. “Still?” 

“ _Still_?” she repeated, incredulous. “You’ve done nothing to convince me otherwise! Showing me around a building, parading me in front of your executives and your connections and your friends, treating me to meals, offering me a job—fine. You’re a better person than you were at Hogwarts. You’ve changed, and the evidence bears it out. I’m convinced. But how can you expect me to take this any further when you refuse to come clean about the reason we reconnected in the first place?” 

“I’m not—”

“Don’t,” Hermione warned. “I’m not interested in hearing another denial.” 

He dropped his eyes to the table. “It’s that important to you?” 

Hermione clenched her teeth to keep from screaming it: “ _Yes_.” 

He sighed and rose from the table in weary resignation. “Very well, then. The bill’s been taken care of. See you around.” 

She was too slow to stop him. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Hermione thought they had been building something over these four months. A friendship at least, though she wouldn’t have minded more. But whatever _more_ was couldn’t happen without trust. She didn’t give hers lightly, yet Draco expected it without reciprocation. He insisted on hiding the truth from her, using bureaucracy as a shield and counting on her natural curiosity to entice her into throwing away her Ministry position. It was underhanded, sly, and felt incongruous to the man she’d gotten to know. 

What if Draco were telling the truth? 

She’d considered the possibility before, but had never given it much weight. Fulgurite was one of Alkemens’ most profitable items, and Draco had ample incentive to hide any practices that the Ministry would consider unfair or illegal. But how many times had he insisted? How often had he given his word? 

Draco didn’t seem like one to make flippant promises. A man who used language to his advantage? Who could find just the right loophole to slither through if it meant guaranteeing him a favorable outcome? Absolutely. 

But a liar? 

The hidden door clicked closed, and Hermione let her head sink into her hands. As humiliating as it was to be left alone with a half-full charcuterie board and a nearly empty bottle of wine, she had done the right thing to refuse him. She couldn’t have a relationship, professional or otherwise, with someone she didn’t trust. It was her line in the sand, and she refused to cross it, even for him. 

Hermione lifted her head, decided. She had almost found composure until her eyes drifted to the sparkling pile of gold beside her plate. Hot, frustrated tears filled her eyes, and she let out a quiet curse. 

Draco had forgotten the fulgurite necklace. 

Maybe their game was not as over as she’d thought.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sun shone through Hermione’s window, her workspace as bright and cheery as every other cubicle on her floor. It figured: the one day she wanted her window to match her mood, there wasn’t a storm within fifty miles of the British Isles’ coastline.

Her parchment sat before her, stubbornly blank. She had been trying to fill it for days, but never got further than the salutation.

> _Dear Draco,_

Even that sounded wrong, but it was already inked and she disliked wasting resources.

Ideas abounded as to where to go next. She’d been over dozens of mental drafts, and none had felt right.

> _I hope you’re well. Lovely weather we’re having, such a shame…_
> 
> _You’re wrong about me, and here’s why…_
> 
> _How dare you offer me a position, how could you assume…_

Cruel and argumentative. He’d have no reason to write her back. If that’s what she even wanted. It had been a week since their lunch at Jonquil, and the longer the silence stretched between them, the more Hermione wondered if it was for the best. A natural, maybe even predictable backslide into silence, with the distant threat of renewed enmity.

Except that she _missed_ him. Emptiness expanded in her chest at the thought of not seeing him again, squeezed her lungs tight until she reminded herself that there was still a chance. Their future was not set. She could make it right, if she wanted.

> _I didn’t mean it…_
> 
> _I’m sorry…_
> 
> _I’d like to see you again._

One lie, two truths, all three inappropriate to admit via letter. These were statements better delivered in person, where she could gauge his response in the lift of his eyebrows and the curl of his lips. And waiting for a reply would have been torturous. If he were going to reject her, she’d prefer it be done in person, where they both could feel the stinging finality of it.

> _You forgot your necklace; please find enclosed._

Appropriate, polite, but frigid. A hard stop to their unlikely reconnection, and not one Hermione wanted to use. Besides, the necklace was her bargaining chip: the one reason he might deign to see her again after she’d insulted and embarrassed him.

After she’d embarrassed herself.

Hermione frowned. She’d never been good at apologies, especially when the wrong didn’t rest solely on her shoulders. Maybe she hadn’t given Draco enough credit. Maybe she should’ve taken a chance, trusted that he had reformed enough not to implicate her in a crime. But he hadn’t trusted her either. Whether he was using Dark magic or not, he could’ve let her in, accepted her initial offer of aid, and worked with her to find a solution.

They were both holding back, trying to find balance on shifting sands and acting surprised when they fell. One of them needed to provide stable ground, otherwise they would never build anything together. But she’d have to see him again to ever have a chance at it.

She turned back to the letter and the blank space that yawned beneath her motionless quill. A cloud drifted past her window, dimming the light that poured onto her desk. She pressed a hand to her sternum, soothed by the now-familiar hum beneath her fingers.

Perhaps she was overthinking things. Perhaps the letter felt wrong because it _was_ wrong. Text had been their opening, a cautious, low-stakes initiation to gauge interest and intent. They were past that now. The stakes were high; their mutual interest undeniable; their intentions diametrically opposed.

For four months, they had circled each other, two duelists waiting for an opening, the tension between them increasing with each careful step. Perhaps her best move—her only move—was to wait.

The summer was far from over, after all.

There were plenty of storms still to come.

* * *

Experts had been predicting the storm sine Monday. The high and low pressure systems approached like two speeding trains on the same set of tracks. The crash was inevitable, but the site remained under debate until Thursday afternoon. By then, most meteorologists agreed: Norfolk was in for one hell of a battering.

As was recommended with any approaching storm, Hermione remained calm and prepared accordingly.

First, she submitted an emergency requisition to Magical Maintenance, who replied with their usual alacrity. She visited the kitchenette for tea as a soft-spoken Frenchman named Didier fiddled with the charms on her window. When she returned, instead of grey skies and storms, her window displayed a looped shot of Norfolk county’s varied and extensive shoreline. Some areas, usually near towns, were populated with holidayers. Other areas were empty, the wide strip of sand transitioning into either marsh or field.

At first glance, all of it seemed ideal for fulgurite formation. But as she studied the coastline, she was able to exclude certain areas based on geography and the storm’s most likely path. She would have to continue refining it until just before the storm hit.

Next on her list was a visit to Leonard at the Portkey registration desk. Arranging the trip in advance saved her the fifteen Knut rush charge. Instead, she paid the normal seven and shared a laugh with Leonard about the deviation in what had become her norm.

As a final step, Hermione cleared her schedule for Friday afternoon, rearranging, cancelling, and refusing meetings depending on who had called them. It was early August. She had neither seen nor heard from Draco for three weeks, and nothing—save perhaps the third resurrection of Lord Voldemort—would prevent her from meeting him on the beach.

Mid Friday afternoon, as if on cue, clouds the color of a fresh bruise gathered over the North Sea. Wind began to gust through the trees and scrub grass, pulling umbrellas from the sand and sending them skittering down the shore. Hermione watched as the lingering beachgoers—who had decided that a morning of seaside serenity was better than none at all—packed up their towels and cool boxes and ushered children into their cars. It didn’t take long for the beach to empty, and a good thing, too: the storm had blown in fast.

Hermione leaned closer to her office window, the crumpled Walkers crisp bag clutched tightly in her hand. The picture dimmed, fuzzed out by the fading light and the sheeting rain, continuing to pan south down the shoreline.

She knew he would be there. She couldn’t say how. Instinct, perhaps: the same, primal knowledge that told her the sun would rise in the east and set in the west. Or familiarity, akin to how she could predict Ron’s sanctimonious judgment or Harry’s misplaced worries whenever Draco’s name rose in conversation.

Or maybe it was destiny, the way of the world. Maybe the same inevitable forces that had brought high and low pressure systems to meet over this specific beach, at this specific time, also governed the timing of her and Draco’s collision, stretching the arc of their story out over 16 years to its conclusion, here and now.

Hermione’s breath caught when she saw him. A slim figure moving steadily through the haze, his shock of pale hair a dim beacon in the dark. Draco Malfoy, alone in the growing tempest.

She tapped the window with her wand. _Holkham Beach (52.980, 0.772)_.

With a whispered word, the Portkey activated, spinning her through space and time and landing her on uneven sand. She staggered, unsteady, and then a gust caught the hem of her cloak and pulled. Hermione fell to her knees, the crisps bag tearing from her hand and disappearing in the windstorm. She stayed low for a moment in an attempt to gain her bearings, her wand pressed between her palm and the wet sand. She squinted against the pinprick rain and felt her heart leap.

Beside her sat a pair of Dragon-hide boots.

A flick of her fingers loosed the cloak clasp at her throat. She pushed a haphazard pile of sand atop it to keep it anchored, then struggled to her feet, fighting to stand against the wind.

Draco had rolled his trousers up to his knees, his lean calves exposed as he stood barefoot in the sand, just beyond the waves. The ocean beat upon the shore, reaching for him with foaming fingers and retreating just shy. His white Oxford had come untucked. His shirttails flapped around his hips, exposing the pale skin of his torso in brief snaps.

Despite the surrounding chaos—the pelting rain, the howling wind, the greedy, roaring ocean— Draco looked steady, focused. His left arm moved in a broad, sweeping motion, each gesture flowing seamlessly into the next, his wand held as delicately as a conductor’s baton. The shore rippled with each pass, like a twenty-foot long serpent that lay just a foot below the sand’s surface had been trained to follow the smooth stroke of his arm.

The sky lit purple, split apart by a bolt of lightning and followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder.

The storm was upon them.

Draco raised his wand, a single hand extending toward the heavens.

Hermione began to sprint, clumsy and slow through the sand.

“Draco! Draco, don’t!” Her shouts were nothing against the storm’s wrath, and Draco stood unflinching. Lightning flashed again, and Hermione realized that his wand was not a wand at all, but a cane.

A metal-tipped cane.

Fear weakened her knees, nearly sending her back onto the sand. This was far worse than meteorological manipulation; at least with magic, Draco would have had some measure of control. This was reckless, an invitation to the elements to do their worst and damn the consequences.

Hermione ran faster, slipped, caught herself, kept going. She reached out to Draco with a desperation she’d only felt twice before, on her, Harry, and Ron’s narrowest escapes from Lord Voldemort. The wordless warning tore from her throat, a panicked scream which pierced the split-second of peace and stillness that always seemed to precede fury.

Draco heard her. He turned, and Hermione felt a fleeting moment of hope until she saw the resolve within his storm cloud eyes and the grim, determined expression written across his face.

He hurled the cane into the sand.

Lightning struck.

Near blinding radiance. Sand glowing gold, air humming with power. Wild electricity dancing from the head of the cane, cutting the darkness with purple-white whips.

A forked finger finding Draco, arcing through him, his body luminescent, brilliant, beautiful.

Then, the explosion.

A crack louder than anything Hermione had ever heard, like the world had split itself apart. The shockwave blasted her off her feet, and she landed hard on her side. The impact punched the breath from her lungs, and her whole chest ached as, moments later, all that lost air rushed back in. She turned herself over with a gasp, got to her hands and knees with a groan. The sand was warm beneath her fingers, still crackling with a power that made her flesh crawl. She blinked her vision back and saw Draco lying prone in the encroaching surf.

He wasn’t moving.

“No,” she moaned. Hermione clawed at the sand, pulling herself forward, flinching as another bolt of lightning shook the world around her. The cane lay just beyond Draco’s fingertips, the head a monstrously contorted hunk of metal, two, chipped, blackened stones sunk deep into the scorched silver. His father’s cane, used Merlin-only-knew how many times as a conductor. She tossed it away.

“Please, please…” Hermione took Draco by the shoulders. His body bled smoke or steam, she wasn’t sure which, though she thought she smelled burning. She tore his shirt open. A branching, fern-like pattern crawled from his right shirtsleeve, across his collarbone, and down the right side of his torso. The marked skin was bright pink and tender, crisscrossing the thick runnels of scar tissue left by Harry’s Sectumsempra curse.

“ _Please_.” She pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes, trying to find a heartbeat beneath the grumbling thunder and pounding rain. The wind around her groaned, and she curled her fingers into his shirt. She wasn’t a Healer. She couldn’t fix this. Tears filled her eyes.

“Draco, you idiot.”

Another groan. The wind tugged at her hair.

No. Not the wind.

She pushed herself up and saw Draco’s eyes flutter. A hysterical noise—part sob, part scream, part laugh—ripped from her chest, absorbed by another crash of thunder.

She fisted her hands into his lapels and dragged him up and into her arms. He was deadweight against her chest, limp but breathing. Hermione held him tight.

“You idiot!”

He breathed something that sounded like a laugh.

For several minutes, they did not move, sitting twined together on the beach as the storm moved inland, the threat of lightning more distant with each breath. Hermione cried and cursed, torn between kissing him and tossing him into the ocean so that the elements could finish their work. Draco shifted against her, brought his arms around her and twisted his fingers into her hair, which had straightened in the rain. Hermione let them both enjoy the feeling, the sweet intimacy of the gesture, before pushing him away. But not too far. She cradled his cheeks in her hands and rested her forehead against his.

“What were you thinking?”

She felt more than saw his smile, and he still sounded breathless when he said, “Told you I wasn’t doing Dark magic.”

“No, what you were doing was about a million times more irresponsible and stupid.” She pressed her fingers into his skin, hoping he could feel her anger and relief.

“Never been struck until now.” He groaned and sat back from her, trying to straighten. “You should’ve trusted me.”

“You should’ve trusted _me_. You’ve been risking your life for what? Profit? A few more Galleons on your balance sheet at the end of the year?”

He shook his head. “Not profit. I don’t care about that.”

“Then _why_?”

He closed his eyes and turned his lips to press against her palm. “I wanted to make something on my own. Something beautiful.”

“Your company—”

He shook his head again. “I inherited it from my father. I wanted something that was mine. Something that I built, after a lifetime of destruction. This.” He traced the metal chain around her neck and pulled the fulgurite pendant from beneath her shirt. Hermione’s heart pounded, thudding as hard as the waves upon the shore.

“I was going to give it back.”

Draco shook his head, his eyes lifting to hers. “I meant it for you.”

Her breath caught, and with the tilt of his chin, Draco stole it. His lips pressed against hers, warm and tasting of rainwater, tender and fleeting.

“Say you’ll work with me.” Draco’s request ghosted across her lips, tingling like electricity, brimming with possibility.

“I have conditions.” Hermione meant to be stern, but Draco’s relieved laugh broke her concentration and lit joy within her chest. The excitement of something new unfurled within her, like a bloom that had been finally been given permission to grow.

“Anything,” he promised.

“Can I have that in writing?”

Draco laughed again and leaned backwards, falling onto the sand and bringing her with him. Hermione lay next to him, her fingertips brushing his, and closed her eyes against the rain.

Later, they would harvest a fortune in fulgurite. She would bully him into visiting St. Mungo’s emergency clinic and stay the night with him on the advice of his Healer. The next day, they would fight about employment contracts over brunch and discuss the timeline for her transition to Alkemens. He would commit to finding a different way to harvest fulgurite—one that wouldn’t kill him—and she would seal the agreement with their second kiss. One that was longer, deeper, and promised so much more than a renewed commitment to personal safety.

For now, though, she was content to hold his hand and breathe in the lingering smell of ozone: the scent of magic, lightning, and unlimited potential.

**The End**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updated to include my commission from the wonderfully talented Gildedshivers. Find and follow her on Tumblr and Insta!!


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